


Decimation, Desolation, Desecration, Devastation, Declaration

by ArtemisPendragon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Canon Era, Court Sorceress Morgana (Merlin), Elyan Lives (Merlin), First Kiss, Good Mordred (Merlin), Good Morgana (Merlin), Grief/Mourning, Idiots in Love, Immortal Merlin (Merlin), King Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Lancelot (Merlin) Lives, M/M, Major Character Injury, Merlin & Morgana Friendship (Merlin), Merlin Dies (Merlin), Merlin Saves Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Morgana's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Nice Uther Pendragon (Merlin), Not Canon Compliant, POV Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Pining Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), References to Depression, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Takes place sometime during season 3, Temporary Character Death, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Uther Pendragon Dies (Merlin), dont question it, incredibly not canon compliant, no beta we die like idiots, not as much of a dick as you could have been, relatively speaking, the knights all live because i say so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29073891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisPendragon/pseuds/ArtemisPendragon
Summary: It had been fifty-six days since the knights and their prince arrived back at the gates of the castle without Merlin.[updates once a week - final one coming soon!]
Relationships: Aithusa & Kilgharrah (Merlin), Aithusa & Morgana (Merlin), Arthur Pendragon & Uther Pendragon (Merlin), Gaius & Hunith (Merlin), Gwaine/Percival (Merlin), Gwen & Morgana (Merlin), Gwen/Lancelot (Merlin), Hunith & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Knights of the Round Table & Merlin (Merlin), Leon & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Morgana & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 84
Kudos: 251





	1. Decimation

**Author's Note:**

> Woo! Another multi-chapter piece! I'm really happy with how this one turned out. It's (almost) finished, so updates will be exactly one week apart until the last chapter is posted. 
> 
> Also, the title appeased my Alliteration Angel. So satisfying uwu

It had been fifty-seven days since Prince Arthur and his manservant, Merlin, had set out on their last patrol together. They hadn’t known it at the time, of course, but it was true all the same. Fifty-seven days since they rode ten miles out from the citadel on their horses, Llamrei and Honey, to a meadow nestled between the hills, known only to them and their friends. They then settled atop the prince’s crimson cloak for a picnic lunch under the brilliant, cloudless summer sky. 

Gwen had gladly packed the majority of their lunch, but only once Arthur told her that he was going to be sharing it with Merlin. She’d seen something in his face, his expression, and curtseyed to him in acquiescence, but not before sending him one of her too-knowing smiles. A behavior clearly brought on by spending too much time with Morgana, Arthur had thought with a roll of his eyes. But once he and Merlin were feasting on fresh, crusty bread, ripe fruits, thick slices of sharp cheeses, and assorted sweets, he realized that maybe Morgana’s influence wasn’t such a bad thing after all. 

It had been fifty-seven days since Arthur, distracted by Merlin’s bright, clear laugh, brought on by a clever joke of his own creation, failed to notice the bandits that had silently surrounded their small, secret haven. 

Fifty-seven days since Merlin’s eyes had widened in panic as he shoved Arthur to the side, away from an incoming sword. Arthur rolled with the momentum, quickly drew his own weapon, and sprung to his feet, but not quick enough, no, never quick enough, because there, standing but two metres away, was-

Merlin, his gut pierced by the bandit’s blade, struggling to stay standing as his tunic and trousers turned the same color as Arthur’s cloak. He raised a shaking hand and murmured something in a tongue so ancient and powerful that it shook Arthur to his core. He watched as the bandits and the blade were flung backwards by some invisible force and collided with thick trees and heavy stones, never to rise again; their bodies remained in the grass, crumpled and twisted. He watched as Merlin’s hand fell limply back to his side. He watched his manservant sway in place, unbalanced and light-headed, as he turned to face the prince, his boots slipping on blood-slicked earth. 

Arthur watched the gold fade from Merlin’s eyes as the life faded from his body. His horror and fear immediately gave way to shocked numbness. He felt nothing at the sight of Merlin’s undeniable magic. There would be time for confusion and anger and panicked discussion and fond insults later. 

Later, once Merlin was back in Camelot and swaddled in bandages and blankets in his bed off Gaius’ room, hurt but alive.

Because of course Merlin was going to live. Of course he was. Anything else was simply unthinkable.

_ Will he? _ whispered a traitorous voice in Arthur’s ear as he saw the servant’s lifeblood soak into the soil. 

_ No, _ murmured a second voice, far sadder and softer and more real.

“Arthur,” Merlin rasped just before his knees gave way. Arthur closed the small distance between them without hesitation, catching him in his arms before they both sunk to the ground, Merlin’s head cushioned in Arthur’s lap. 

“I’ve got you, Merlin,” the prince whispered, stroking the sweat-soaked hair off his feverish brow. The dark locks made it hard to see the bright blueness of Merlin’s eyes, which were growing dimmer by the moment. Arthur swallowed past a lump in his throat, unaware that tears were streaming down his face. “What- What can I do? How can I help?” he begged, panicking, using a hand to cover the gaping wound in vain. Bright blood seeped through his fingers in time with Merlin’s slowing pulse and stained his pale skin red.

“Just… Hold me, Arthur,” the young man pleaded. Arthur brought him closer, pressing his chest to the sorcerer’s back, his arms wrapped tightly around Merlin’s pierced torso to try to fight off the chill creeping into Merlin’s extremities. He buried his face in the other’s neck, feeling his thready heartbeat under his skin. He pressed soft, light, desperate kisses to the column of his throat, and Merlin leaned into them with a quiet groan. It struck Arthur, then, exactly what he was losing. Something within him cracked, and the rest of him followed, shattering.

“I’m here. I’m here,” the prince promised, choking on sobs. “I’ve got you. I’m here, Merlin. I’m here.” 

Arthur held him. His legs grew numb, but Arthur held him. His arms grew heavy and tired, but Arthur held him. His mind grew detached from his body in a desperate attempt to spare his heart, but Arthur held him. The sun grew distant and dipped below the western sky, but Arthur held him. 

It had been fifty-six days since Arthur buried the body of his servant under the boughs of a willow tree by a lake in the pale light of dawn. 

It had been fifty-six days since Arthur was found on the edge of that same lake, curled on his side on top of the grave, his gaze distant and his clothes soaked in dried blood. The leader of the patrol that came upon him was a young knight, Sir Vortigern, who had no idea how to approach the prince. Luckily for all present, Sir Leon was there as well, supervising the newly-knighted men. He dismounted his horse and slowly approached Arthur. 

“Sire?” the senior knight asked quietly, kneeling at his friend’s side. “Sire, what- what happened here?” He’d seen the broken bodies of the bandits when they’d entered the meadow, the scattered remains of the picnic, and the luckily unharmed crown prince, but there was no sign of the much beloved servant. “Where’s Merlin?”

That, at least, got a reply from Arthur. “Gone,” he whispered, clutching a scrap of threadbare red cloth closer to his chest. It was Merlin’s neckerchief. Leon felt the ground fall out from under him.

“Gone? Arthur, what-”

“Gone,” the blond repeated emotionlessly. One of his hands, filthy with dirt and blood, fell to the freshly disturbed earth beneath them. 

Leon exhaled sharply as the truth thundered, undeniable, in his head. “Oh. Al-alright. Can… We need to get you back to Camelot, sire. Everyone is worried about you. Especially your father. When you didn’t come back yesterday…” Arthur remained silent. Leon sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, distressed, trying and failing to remember his training for helping people who were in emotional shock. “You can take my horse. I’ll ride with Vortigern. Is that okay, Arthur?”

Arthur nodded numbly. Leon gently maneuvered him upright, very much aware that they were about to leave Merlin behind. He made a mental note of the location of this place, intent that the servant’s grave would receive a proper marker. 

After Arthur clumsily heaved himself onto Leon’s horse, the now-somber patrol swiftly and silently turned back towards the citadel. 

It had been fifty-six days since the group of knights and their prince arrived back at the gates of the castle without Merlin. Fifty-six days since the king and the rest of the Round Table hurried down the steps to meet them, horrified by the blood on Arthur’s tunic and shouting questions at the patrol. Fifty-six days since Arthur was herded to Gaius by a confused and concerned King Uther, who reported that his son seemed unharmed, so why was he covered in blood? Gaius had gone very, very pale, and, upon receiving a “no” from Uther when asked if Merlin had returned with the patrol, the physician had sunk into a chair by the patient cot, a hand pressed to his mouth. 

Uther, who could, on rare occasions, be emotionally perceptive, realized the answer to his own question, and he quietly swept out of the room with only an awkward and pitying look on his face. 

The physician glanced at Arthur, seeing his own grief reflected in the prince’s glassy eyes. Gaius hobbled the short distance over to the cot, sat down next to him, and pulled the young man against his side, both of them soon weeping into each other as the realization of their loss crashed against them like waves in a storm. 

Not even an hour later, Arthur’s inner circle was pounding on Gaius’ door, and he bid them enter with a thin, exhausted voice. 

Gwaine and Lancelot were the first ones to clamber in, followed by Elyan and Percival, with Leon, who knew the horrible truth, the very last knight to enter. Gwen and Morgana were there as well, having slipped in behind the rest. 

Gwaine’s eyes fell on Arthur, who was leaning against a trembling Gaius and staring off into the middle distance, face bare and emotionless save for the tearstains on his cheeks. Gwaine staggered back against Percival and let out a soft, pained noise, not needing words to understand the look in Arthur’s eyes. 

“Arthur?” Lancelot asked, approaching the prince cautiously, unknowingly repeating the same questions that Leon had asked him. Leon, who stood at the back of the room, looked away, unable to stand Arthur’s sorrowful countenance, sure that it was reflected in his own. “Arthur, what happened? Where’s Merlin?” 

“He’s gone,” Arthur rasped, his voice rough and quiet from crying. “Merlin’s gone. I couldn’t save him. It’s my fault. He’s gone and it’s all my fault.” Merlin’s neckerchief was still in his fist, and he rubbed the fabric with his thumb as more tears fell. 

Lancelot stilled, his posture going rigid. “Merlin’s… dead?” 

All Arthur could do was nod.

It had been fifty-six days since the infirmary was filled with the sounds of grief and sorrow. Fifty-six days since Gwen collapsed to the floor, her descent halted only by Leon’s quick reflexes. Fifty-six days since Morgana rushed from the room, sobbing, cursing the Goddess’s cruelty and hysterically wondering why she hadn’t Seen this like she’d Seen the Questing Beast, like she’d Seen a hundred other horrors, but not this one,  _ why not this one _ ? Fifty-six days since Gwaine and Percival slid down the wall and onto the ground, clutching each other as their legs gave out. Fifty-six days since Elyan’s eyes became haunted by the misery shared by everyone there. 

Hours later, once the knights had wept and raged and vomited in their grief, they trickled out of the physician’s quarters, looking as lost as Arthur felt. Gwen and Lancelot stayed with him and Gaius the longest. 

Gwen, in all her gentle, knowing ways, took a cloth and a bowl of water and scrubbed the filth from Arthur’s hands and arms, moving slowly and carefully. She knew full well whose blood was turning the water pink, whose grave Arthur had dug with his bare hands. She cleaned the soil from under his broken nails and between his fingers, then refilled the bowl with clean water and worked at his palms and wrists. Lancelot and Arthur watched silently, knowing that the maidservant needed this sense of routine, of normalcy, in order to process what her mind and heart were refusing to accept. 

Half an hour later, when her tears began to join the muddied water in the bowl, Lance wordlessly took over for her, and she collapsed against Gaius, her shoulders shaking with the force of her despair. 


	2. Desolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur begins to learn how to live without Merlin by his side. Destiny marches on. The Countdown continues, and some familiar faces make their way to Camelot in the wake of Merlin's death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's about 1K words longer than the first. So much happens that the chapter kind of got away from me. I hope you guys like it!

It had been fifty-five days since an official statement was made to the rest of the city, announcing Merlin’s sudden passing. The king, having seen how his son and ward were affected by such a loss, made sure that the people knew of Merlin’s bravery, how he had saved Arthur by taking the blade himself. 

He reminded them all of how a similar incident had landed Merlin in the royal household in the first place three years earlier, and that each of them should strive to follow the examples of selflessness and duty that Merlin embodied. It was hardly the most emotional speech, but the people were touched by the attempt and Uther’s words nonetheless. The courtyard where Uther’s speech had been made was packed to capacity; it was clear that Merlin had touched the lives of nearly every person in Camelot.

It had been fifty-three days since Arthur rode out with his knights to Ealdor, bearing no standard and only minimal armor. Uther had barely batted an eye at Arthur’s request to journey to Essetir, knowing full well why he had asked permission for such a thing.

It had been fifty days since they returned to the citadel with Hunith, who moved into Gaius’ chambers to share in his burdens and his mourning. Whenever one of them became bedridden with the weight of loss, the other would take up their duties, knowing they would switch roles again in just a few days’ time. Morgana and Gwen often stopped by to aid them in any way they could, and it wasn’t uncommon to see one or both of them doing rounds with the grieving siblings.

It had been forty-eight days since Arthur summoned the knights to his chambers and told them what he had learned of Merlin in his last moments. None of them were overly shocked, especially Lancelot and Morgana, both of whom looked away guiltily. Gwaine admitted that he’d suspected it for months, and he understood why Merlin had never told any of them. They each vowed to keep Merlin’s secret, knowing it was the least they could do for the man who was so beloved, especially by all of them. 

It had been forty-five days since Arthur returned to the clearing, leading his knights and a small covered wagon. The six of them placed Merlin’s grave marker on the flowering earth with more than a few shed tears. It was a simple thing, carved from a single slab of light grey stone, bearing Merlin’s name, his age at death, and a message saying “Always loved, always missed”. Arthur knelt at the stone and, using his dagger, carved a rough triskelion into the base of the marker. He dared not have asked the stonemason to do it when making the grave, considering Uther’s laws on magic. It felt more personal like this anyway. 

It had been forty days since Arthur summoned his knights (along with Morgana and her maidservant) to his chambers for drinks. He’d arranged the chairs from his dining table around the crackling hearth. Each one had cups placed on the seats, which were to be filled with measures of mead or wine that were in pitchers on the low table in front of them. His friends trickled in, either alone or in pairs, each of them wearing matching expressions of weary acceptance. Arthur sat in the middlemost seat, feeling slightly better once he was surrounded by the others. There was a camaraderie shared by all present, including Gwen and Morgana, that went beyond the bonds of duty and rank. Here, in the dimly-lit chambers, warmed by the hearth and drinks, they were able to shed their titles, their responsibilities, and share the burden of loss.

Perhaps that was why Arthur indulged in the unwatered wine more than he usually did; he could forget his station, forget that he was a prince, and drown his broken heart with alcohol. He was not the only one to do so, but no one else pushed their limits that night as much as he. Even Gwaine, who consumed more than Arthur did, was only moderately drunk in comparison. It was enough for some of them to shoot concerned glances his way, but he was either too far into his cups or too lost in grief to care. 

After an hour, Arthur had drunk enough of the wine for his tongue to loosen and his emotional walls to fall away. He had never let himself go like this before. Usually Merlin was there at feasts or in his chamber after a rough day to make sure he didn’t embarrass himself by drinking too much. But now that responsibility was back on him and him alone, and he didn’t particularly care if he made a fool out of himself. He’d already failed his best friend and let him die - getting a little too drunk paled in comparison to his greatest shame.

He sat back in his chair and half-heartedly listened to the stories being told of his late manservant. Gwen had started the whole thing by telling them how she had met Merlin for the first time, and despite him being locked in a pillory and covered in rotted vegetables, she’d been charmed by his kindness and good humor. It led to the other sharing their own stories about how they’d met Merlin, with Gwaine’s tale easily being both the most entertaining and predictable. 

It quickly turned from a somber, informal memorial into a happier and lighter evening of storytelling and sad but genuine laughter. Arthur contributed here and there to other’s stories but did not volunteer his own tales, content to just listen and watch as the weight of grief seemed to lessen from their shoulders, at least for a little while. 

He wasn’t sure what prompted him to say it, but he was gazing down into the dark red wine in his cup when he drunkenly and accidentally interrupted one of the knights - Elyan, perhaps - and stated “I think… I think I was in love with him.”

The rest of the room fell silent. The only sound to be heard was the low crackling of the hearth. Every head turned to face Arthur, but he continued to stare at his drink. 

“With Merlin?” Gwen asked softly, and Arthur nodded, his actions unsteady from the alcohol in his veins. 

“I didn’t- didn’t even realize until he was bleeding out in my arms, Gwen. How selfish is that? I’m losing my best friend in the whole world, and all I can think about is what I’ve been denying myself for years.” He let out a short, angry laugh, then drained the remaining wine in his goblet. “How fucked up am I that I can’t even let myself acknowledge what I have until it’s gone? Why-” He broke off and scrubbed roughly at his eyes. “Why did I have to lose him to realize why I wanted to have him so much?”

Morgana, perhaps the least surprised of all, damn her, held him as he sobbed anew. All of them learned that night that Arthur would never forgive himself for not telling Merlin when he still had the chance. And as much as they tried to reassure him that Merlin knew in his own way, Arthur continued shaking his head and voicing his regrets. Once the prince had drifted off to sleep, thanks to the drinks and emotional exhaustion, the knights tucked him into his bed and drifted back to their own quarters, wondering how many more fractured souls Merlin’s death had left behind. 

It had been thirty-five days since Arthur was awoken by the warning bells and a frantic Gwen in the middle of the night. There was blood on her skirts and hands, and she sobbed as she told him that an assassin had slipped past the guards during a change in rotation. Arthur vaulted out of bed, his heart beating wildly in his chest, and followed her down the corridor to his father’s bedroom. 

It had been thirty-four days since Arthur, dressed in mourning clothes for the second time in a single month, stood on a balcony overlooking the full main courtyard and announced the death of King Uther at the hands of a rogue assassin. 

It had been thirty-one days since Arthur was crowned King of Camelot, the hall full of nobility and commoners alike.

That evening, Arthur sat at the desk in his private chambers, the crown discarded on his bed without care. He had his face buried in his hands, and his shoulders shook as sobs tore through him. He’d always assumed he’d have Merlin at his side when he became king, and now that he didn’t, the loss of his father hit him harder than he ever imagined it would. There was no one there to comfort him, to know exactly what to say, to have learned Arthur’s heart and soul so well that he wouldn’t lose himself in a spiral of loneliness, self-doubt, and grief. 

And despite the efforts of his knights, Gwen, and his half-sister (which he’d discovered through a long, long letter written many years ago by Uther, to be delivered upon his death), Arthur knew there was no replacing his best friend. 

It had been twenty-four days since Arthur, as his first act as king, legalized the use of magic in Camelot once more. He pushed the bill through his council without much argument, especially once he revealed that he was only standing there due to the magic used by his late manservant. He explained what had truly happened that day in the meadow, and once the council had been given some time to digest it, they backed the law almost unanimously. 

Later that evening, Morgana came to him and revealed her own magic. She told him that Merlin had been helping her control it ever since she began to suspect her dreams were actually visions of the future nearly a full year ago. The siblings held each other as they cried, both in relief and loss, and they both wondered if they would ever know the true extent of Merlin’s influence on the kingdom and its people. 

It had been twenty-two days since Arthur, as his second act as king, appointed Morgana the position of Court Sorceress. He also formally recognized her true position in the royal household, declaring her both Princess of Camelot and his heir. Unlike the law on magic, this decision was met with nothing but raucous support and applause. Arthur saw the stress, the fear, melt off of Morgana as she stood before the court, accepted by all. 

And if he saw tears of joy shining in her eyes, well, that was between him, his sister, and the knights as they celebrated privately after the commemorative feast. 

It had been nineteen days since the knights scrambled to form a defensive line in the courtyard, the warning bells clanging feverishly as a pair of dark, winged shadows circled the citadel. The creatures soared lower and lower until their wings brushed against the tops of the castle’s towers. Arthur was at the front of the shield wall, barking orders to his men while Gwen evacuated nearby citizens and Morgana put up magical barriers to protect the soldiers. 

Much to everyone’s surprise, the beasts landed in the yard without a single swipe of claws or bite of fangs. “Hold!” Arthur shouted to the knights, unwilling to lower his guard so quickly. “Shields up, but do  _ not _ attack unless I so order!” The ground shook beneath their feet as the monsters touched down, and those who remained in the courtyard were buffeted by strong backwinds. Once the dust cleared, Arthur was able to take in the (admittedly impressive) sight before him.

It was obvious now that the creatures were dragons, strong and majestic and powerful. They were of differing sizes; the largest was a brasslike golden-green, while the much smaller one was pure white. But even the white one was obviously not to be underestimated, and when those pale blue eyes met Arthur’s, he couldn’t help but shiver at the piercing depths that seemed to look into his very soul. 

Shifting his focus to the other, larger dragon didn’t help matters. It was clearly older than the first, covered in scars that conveyed its age. There was a familiarity about it that made dread curl around Arthur’s ribs. While its white counterpart was no bigger than a hunting dog, this one easily dwarfed any of the houses in the lower town, and standing before it, Arthur felt incredibly small and silly, armed as he was with only a sword and shield. The large dragon moved slowly, lowering its head so that it could look him in the eye.

“King Arthur,” it rumbled, causing Arthur to gape in shock. A thousand questions flew through his mind, and he intended to voice at least a handful of them, but the dragon continued to speak before he could do so. “I am Kilgharrah. We have met once before, on the field of battle, not too long ago. I hope to avoid such fighting this time, if you so agree.”

Arthur swallowed thickly and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He remembered the dragon now. He thought he’d killed it; Merlin had said as much. But Merlin had a soft heart and powerful magic. Perhaps he’d convinced the beast to leave instead. It wouldn’t be completely unexpected of him. The thought made Arthur internally smile. 

“Good. I am old, and I have no desire to see further bloodshed,” Kilgharrah said with a sigh. “And my ward, Aithusa, is young, and the only other one of my kind left in the land. She is innocent of the blood I have spilled and the many crimes I have committed.”

“You have my word that neither you nor your kin will come to any undue harm within the borders of my kingdom,” Arthur promised. 

He could swear he saw the Great Dragon’s eyes twinkling in the waning sunlight. “It gladdens my heart to hear as much, young king. I was ordered away from your lands by the last Dragonlord after I was freed, and have spent much time since then reflecting on my actions. I had hoped to return and apologise for the destruction I wrought that day, but I never wanted it to be so soon,” he explained sadly. 

“What do you mean? I thought Balinor was the last Dragonlord, and he died before we could get him to the city,” Arthur asked, his brow furrowed. He watched as Morgana skirted closer to the young dragon, clearly enraptured by the adorable creature. 

“The Dragonlord’s orders that I stay away from Camelot were seared into my soul. I could not go against them - ancient magic forced me to submit. But they could only remain there so long as the Dragonlord lived. And it was not Balinor who gave me them.” 

“Then who? Unless Balinor had a son-” Arthur inhaled sharply, his eyes going wide. “Merlin?  _ Merlin  _ was Balinor’s son?” 

“He was. Merlin did not know this until just before you and he set out to find Balinor. And the powers do not pass from father to son until the father dies, as you are aware. Merlin could not have stopped me any sooner.”

“And now that Merlin is gone…” 

“The orders no longer stand,” Kilgharrah finished with a nod. “I come to you, not for me, but for Aithusa. If something were to happen to me, I would go to my death easier knowing she had someone to look after her. Merlin trusted you above all others. He believed in the kingdom you will create. From what I have seen so far of your reign, he was right to do so.”

“Kilgharrah,” Arthur interrupted gently, “Aithusa will always have a place here. She will receive all the guidance and protection and love that we could ever give her. I’m sure most of that will come from Morgana,” he said with a smirk, and the king and the dragon looked over to see the princess cuddling the baby dragon in her arms, cooing at her and feeding her scraps of chicken fetched from the kitchens. 

Kilgharrah huffed, a sound that was surely meant to be a chuckle. “Thank you, King Arthur. I am in your debt. If you ever have need for me, then come to the caves in the northern forest.” The Great Dragon stepped back and unfurled his wings. He spoke in dragontongue to Aithusa, who chirped, nuzzled a delighted Morgana, and hurried over to her caregiver’s side, opening her own wings as well. “Until we meet again,” the dragon said with one last nod, then leapt into the skies with a thundering of wings. A few seconds later, Arthur watched as Aithusa trailed after him, her much smaller wings beating hard to keep up. 

Morgana watched them go as well, then looked Arthur in the eye, smirking. “I think you just became godfather to a dragon,” she teased, causing many of the knights to turn and look at him with their own expressions of amusement, especially Gwaine. 

“Oh, shut up, Morgana,” he grumbled, and Morgana laughed at him all the way back into the castle. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed my soul, so if you like, please leave one! I'd love to know what you guys think of this chapter.


	3. Desecration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur has a chat with Hunith, and everyone pays a visit to Merlin's Rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where we reach peak angst, my dudes.

It had been fourteen days since Hunith and Gaius invited Arthur to the physician’s quarters, promising to explain as much about Balinor and Dragonlords as they could. The trio spent much of the night in a deep discussion that left Arthur reeling. 

“I told him no man was worth his tears,” he admitted to Hunith, after spending a good deal of time retelling the story of meeting Balinor from his perspective. “He was so upset after Balinor died. I thought it was because we didn’t have any way to even the odds against the dra- Kilgharrah. But I was an idiot. He was mourning his  _ father _ , and I basically told him to get over it. Gods, he must have hated me,” Arthur groaned, his head coming forwards to rest, ashamed, in the palms of his hands. 

Hunith placed her own hand on his knee to try to comfort him. “Arthur, no. Merlin- He thought you were stubborn and insensitive at times, yes, but he could never have hated you. He wrote to me, once everything calmed down after the attack. He told me what happened. Never once did he say he resented you for not understanding his grief. He knew that hiding his relation to Balinor would have consequences, just like revealing it would have. It’s not your fault for not knowing something he never told you,” she said in a calm and soothing voice that only mothers could have. “Please, sire, don’t blame yourself for your ignorance. Gaius and I kept it from Merlin for most of his life, but only because we worried what your father would do if he caught word of it. I hope you can forgive us.”

“Hunith, there’s nothing to forgive. If I had been in your position, I would have done the same. Protecting Merlin is something I’m very familiar with,” the king said with a small huff of laughter. “I knew of his magic since the day he died, but I never once told my father, remember? Even though he couldn’t have done anything to him, had he known.”

“You loved him,” Hunith realized softly, staring at Arthur with knowing eyes. "Loved him like I loved Balinor, like your father loved your mother."

Arthur cleared his throat. Despite having admitted as much to his closest friends, it was a hard truth to confront. “I did,” he said, ducking his head to hide the blush in his cheeks. “I did, and I never really knew until it was too late. He deserved so much better than that.”  _ Better than me, _ the insidious voice in his head added. 

The three of them were crying quietly, but none made any attempt to stem the tears. Hunith did her best to speak through them. “I- I’m glad his l-last moments were- were with you,” she whispered, her voice hitching. “He a- adored you, and- and I know he- he loved you, t-too.” 

Arthur gently wrapped Hunith in his arms and held her as she sobbed. There was little in the world that could rival the pain of a mother who had lost her child, and Arthur wondered if she would ever regain her lively spark, which had been extinguished nearly a month and a half ago. 

It had been ten days since Arthur and his knights began to prepare for a visit to Merlin’s grave. Between his duties as king and Morgana’s responsibilities as Court Sorceress, it took quite a bit of time to organize the outing. Important tasks had to be delegated to the rest of the council, meetings needed to be rescheduled, and patrols had to be reworked in order for the knights to accompany them. The council put up as much of a fuss over it as he had expected they would - unsurprisingly, they took the longest to deal with. Arthur was reluctantly glad he had listened to Morgana’s suggestion of planning it all ahead of time. 

It had been four days since everything was finally decided and settled; four days since Arthur, the knights, Gwen, Morgana, and Hunith set out from the citadel and made the short journey to the clearing now known as Merlin’s Rest. Hunith rode on Merlin’s mare, a chestnut named Honey, and was protected on all sides. A passing wanderer would likely have thought her to be highborn nobility, given the number of knights accompanying her. 

Arthur led their small pilgrimage, and the ten-mile journey gave him time to prepare his heart for what to expect. He hadn’t set foot in the Rest since the day they erected the burial marker over Merlin’s grave. He knew others made frequent trips to the clearing, though, and often watched from a window in his chambers as the knights left in twos or threes, usually accompanied by either Gwen, Morgana, or, most often, Hunith. They would return with solemn faces stained by tears, and Arthur’s heart would clench with guilt. 

Guilt was a constant friend these days. It kept Arthur from sleep during the worst nights, sending him spiraling into the depths of self-loathing and regret and grief. It kept him from visiting Merlin’s grave, too, as he was unable to bear the idea of returning to the site of his greatest failure. Somewhere deep in his mind, a voice told him he didn’t deserve to visit, and he listened to that voice far more often than was healthy. During the times he didn’t feel like hearing those thoughts, he drowned them out with unwatered wine and ale until all he could feel was a detached numbness. 

_ Better numb than mad with grief, _ he thought one night, trying to rationalize it all as he stared into the crackling hearth, wondering if he deserved forgiveness. 

He shook himself from his melancholy as the somber procession drew close to the Rest. The murmur of quiet chatter turned to silence as the rest of the party realized where they were. Just beyond the last of the trees was the clearing, and on the far side of the clearing was the lake, and on the shores of the lake was the willow tree, and under the boughs of the willow tree was Merlin’s grave. Arthur swallowed with some difficulty, then urged his mare onwards, despite the nerves wreaking havoc on his insides. 

The grasses of the clearing rustled softly as they parted beneath the legs of the horses. A gentle breeze whispered through the summer-ripened trees, sending currents of pollen and bright green leaves dancing wherever it went. It carried the scents of wild fruits, warm soil, and fresh lakewater to the travelers, as if the earth itself wanted to ease their suffering. Perhaps, had they been visiting the resting place of anyone else, it may have worked, but the fragrances only made them realize that Merlin would never again feel the summer sun on his skin. 

Just as the base of the willow tree came into view, the air unexpectedly shifted, and a sudden tension flooded the hillside. Arthur was the first to notice the change, with the knights catching on only a moment later. He fought to repress a shiver of unease as he scanned the field before them. Morgana broke away from the protective ring surrounding herself and the two other women, and she joined her brother at the head of the party. 

“You feel it too?” she asked. 

Arthur nodded, shifting in his saddle. “Something’s off. I know I haven’t been here since we put up the marker, but it didn’t feel like this last time. Is there any sort of magic that could cause this?” he asked, biting his lower lip. He hated that his automatic assumption was to blame sorcery for some slight ill, but his physical senses weren’t being very helpful. 

Morgana frowned slightly, and Arthur caught the amber glow of her eyes before she shook her head. “There’s definitely magic nearby, but nothing sinister. If I had to guess, a band of druids likely passed through here a few days ago. But that definitely wouldn’t have caused this…  _ distress _ . Maybe-” 

Whatever she was going to say, only the Goddess would know, as Morgana cut herself off with a sharp intake of breath, staring off towards the willow tree. By that point, the rest of their group had come forwards, wondering why they had stopped. Gwen was at Morgana’s other side, and she reached for her friend with concern shining in her warm brown eyes. 

“Morgana? Did you See something?” she asked, her voice as gentle as the expression on her face. 

The Seer, instead of answering, swiftly dismounted from her horse and took off across the meadow on foot. She was much faster than anyone had a right to be while wearing a gown and fancy slippers. Swearing, Arthur followed her, leaving behind a group of worried and very confused knights, a baffled maidservant, and a lost mother without her son. 

“Morgana, wait!” Arthur yelled after her, silently cursing the weight of his armor. “Gana! For God’s sake, will you-” He yelped and tried to not topple to the ground as he came to a sudden halt, having noticed his sister stop and collapse under the willow tree just a few metres away. He stumbled the remaining distance to her side, panting for breath and clutching at a stitch in his side. 

“Gana, what on Earth has gotten into you?” he asked harshly between gulps of air. She hadn't run off like that since they were children. As he drew closer, he noticed a trembling in her limbs and soft, sobbing gasps spilling from between her lips. “Gana?” he asked in a far softer tone. He couldn’t see what she was kneeling in front of, but he knew it had to be Merlin’s grave. Her reaction struck him as odd - she’d come to visit plenty of times, he knew for certain. So why was she acting as though this was the first time she’d seen it? 

Arthur intended to crouch by her side, maybe even hold her, if she needed the comfort, but as he stepped closer, another shiver skittered down his spine. The feeling of wrongness was more intense now that he was nearer the grave. It seemed to be centered there, at its strongest just in front of where Morgana was kneeling. His pulse roared in his ears and numbed his fingertips.  _ Don’t look, _ a desperate voice in his head begged. His feet continued on, despite the dread weighing them down.  _ Don’t look. _

Arthur looked, then turned away to vomit. 

The grass and wildflowers had been torn up and flattened, mixed in among disturbed earth. The soil was dark and uneven, churned and tossed about like waves in the sea. The pale grey stone marker, so meticulously placed just two months before, had been carelessly thrown onto its side, cracked down the middle like a bolt of lightning. 

Most sickening of all, though, was the unmistakable hole that had been dug in the dirt, reaching into the depths of the earth where his most beloved friend had rested. The darkness of the pit threatened to pull Arthur in, just like it had when he first dug it nearly two months ago.

Someone had desecrated Merlin’s grave.


	4. Devastation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Morgana meet with the Druids, and a familiar face finally makes an appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *keeps pushing back the upload date* Heh, uh, w h o o p s? 
> 
> It's been two weeks. I know. I'm really sorry for making you guys wait so long for this chapter. Mental health is a bitch, as I'm sure some of you know, and mine decided to autodefenestrate (yeet itself out a window) when I sat down to write this. 
> 
> As compensation, how does 6K+ words of angst sound? Good? Thought it might be.

Arthur couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t look away from the horrible sight in front of him. He knew that Morgana was still quietly weeping at his side, but some unnameable chasm had wrenched him open, had separated his heart from his body, leaving him disoriented and unable to do anything but stay motionless beside her. A vague understanding nudged at his consciousness, and he dimly realized that he was going to regret not comforting his sister.  _ More guilt to add to the pile, _ he thought numbly.

The sound of approaching footsteps was the only thing that pulled Arthur’s mind away from careening headlong into the infinite, dark abyss. It broke through the fog that had settled heavily in his heart and his head, muffling his senses and protecting him from further agony. The clouds were thick and heavy like thunderheads, occasionally lightened by bolts of muted rage. He was aware that, if he were more grounded in the physical world, he would have lashed out, would have wanted to strike at anyone who got close enough. His dissociation saved himself and his friends from his fury. 

The familiar voice of Lancelot flowed like a soothing river into him, slowly bringing him back to reality. It was gentle and kind enough that his anger had ebbed to a dull rumble by the time he returned to himself. He found that he had collapsed to his hands and knees at Merlin’s graveside at some point, the strength of his limbs stripped away by shock. His arms were shaking as they held him up, his fingers digging into the soft earth in clenched fists. His breath was ragged and stuttering; it most likely had something to do with the tears streaming down his face. Through wet, clumped lashes, he watched Lancelot reach for his fists and ease them open, spilling the soil trapped within. 

There were small, crescent-shaped cuts on his palms from where his nails had cut into his skin, and droplets of blood leaked into the earth. Arthur remembered how drenched the dirt had been when it was Merlin’s blood soaking it, how it had turned into a horrible crimson mud underfoot. If there had been anything left in Arthur’s stomach, he would have expelled it; as it was, he simply felt sickened and dizzy and wearily resigned. He could only imagine how he looked to his friends; he could feel clammy sweat on his brow and a heavy coldness in his limbs. 

Someone held out an uncapped skin to Lance, which he took with a soft thanks, then used the water inside to clean the dirt from Arthur’s skin. The king cared little for the state of his hands; perhaps an infection of the blood was what he deserved for having failed Merlin so terribly. 

_ Suffering won’t bring him back, _ a sad voice within him whispered, which was quickly snuffed out. 

_ Then consider it my atonement, _ he thought back bitterly as he watched the knight work with care. It reminded him of the day he returned to the citadel without Merlin, shrouded in a blanket of shock and numb with the freshness of loss. The similarity tore him in two, wanting equally to laugh and retch. 

Another knight - Leon, perhaps - had drawn Morgana away from the pit and back towards Gwen and Hunith, who were doing their best to comfort her despite their own raw shock and horror. Neither had been close enough to see the true extent of damage done to Merlin’s grave, thank God, but the king had a feeling that the damage had been done regardless. 

Now that he had returned to himself, he could see the guilt and shame etched into the faces of each of his friends. Like him, they blamed themselves for not being here when this occurred, for being unable to stop it from happening. Gwaine wore self-blame the heaviest, and Arthur knew it was unlikely he’d ever spend another minute sober again. 

_ Perhaps I’ll join him, _ Arthur thought as he watched Lance wrap his hands in clean linen strips. He couldn’t imagine  _ not  _ drinking while trying to live with the guilt that had renewed itself in his heart and bore down on his soul. 

He was again forced out of the increasing spiral of his own mind by the susurrus of leaves and branches scraping together somewhere close-by. The lines of Lance’s body tensed, and they both turned towards the border of the forest near where they were crouching. 

A small, somewhat familiar figure stood just outside the shadow of the trees, his body and face mostly obscured by the dark green cloak that was tied around his throat. Still, though, Arthur could make out some of his features. Short, dark brown hair framed his youthful face, which held eyes that were so blue that Arthur could hardly stand to look at them, lest he see Merlin staring back at him. 

Morgana leapt to her feet, momentarily forgetting her despair, and gave a shout of joy at the sight of the young boy. “Mordred!” she cried, and the young Druid grinned and ran into her outstretched arms. He was a bit taller and lankier than when they’d last seen him; he seemed to have just entered the beginnings of puberty, as he now reached Morgana’s shoulders rather than her waist. 

Lance helped Arthur to his feet, and they joined the dark-haired pair back at the rest of their party. Arthur was glad to see the boy was well, and he gave him a small but genuine smile when he turned to face the king. 

“What in the world are you doing here?” Morgana asked him, her face lit up despite the tear-stains on her cheeks. 

“Iseldir led us through here a few days ago,” he began, and understanding flashed across Morgana’s face. “He’d felt something magical brewing, something big, so he thought that if it ended up being a bad thing, we’d be able to use our own magic to try to weaken it.”

Arthur nodded. From a tactician’s standpoint, it made perfect sense. It must have been why Morgana had felt traces of their presence when they first arrived. “We all noticed that the air feels… wrong here. Was that caused by this big magical event?” Arthur asked. 

Mordred winced. “Sort of? I didn’t really see it happen myself. I was back at the camp, since my magic still isn’t really under control that well, so I don’t know exactly what happened. I think someone got hurt, though, because there’s been a lot going on in the healer’s tent ever since they came back. But the elders have been keeping it really quiet. Iseldir didn’t want any rumors to get out.”

“And telling us won’t start any rumors?” Gwaine asked with a raised eyebrow, causing Mordred to flush red. 

“You’re knights! It’s different! Besides, I was  _ told  _ to come find you,” Mordred explained. 

Everyone gave their attention to Mordred at that. “Find us? Why?” Gwen asked, looking lost and a bit apprehensive. “Have we caused any trouble?”

“I’m not sure why the elders want to see you, but I know it’s not because you’ve done anything wrong,” the young Druid said, quick to soothe Gwen’s fears. He nibbled on his bottom lip before continuing. “But, um, they made it very clear that they only want to see Arthur and Morgana.  _ I _ think it has something to do with making sure we’re protected under the laws legalizing the use of magic, or something else political and boring,” he said, making a face that caused the others to laugh for a moment, even Hunith. 

“Alright, alright, we should see what Iseldir and the others want to discuss. Maybe they’ll have some answers about- about what we saw,” Arthur said, shooting the knights and Morgana a meaningful look. Morgana, at least, realized what he was implying, and she nodded back to him. 

“Let me get my things from the horses, and then we can go,” she said, then turned to Mordred, directing him away from the willow tree and the sight at its base. “Think you’re big and strong enough to help me carry a bag or two?” she asked him, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. Predictably, the young teen was eager to accept her challenge, giving Arthur time to regroup with the knights. 

He sighed as he turned to face them, his expression grim. “Escort Hunith and Gwen back to the city. Don’t tell anyone except Gaius what we’ve seen or heard until Morgana and I get back. Tell Gwen and Hunith that, too. If someone  _ did _ do this to try to hurt us, then it would be best if the citizens remained unaware. Got it?” He received nods of assent from everyone, making him relax his shoulders just a touch. “Good. I don’t expect to be gone for too long, so the arrangements we made with the council should last until we return. If not, then Leon, I trust you to run things in my stead.”

“Understood, Sire.”

“Expect a council meeting as soon as we’re back in Camelot. Whatever it is the druids wish to discuss, I’m expecting it to be crucially important. I suggest you all get some rest while you wait.” The knights all nodded again. “Alright. Dismissed,” Arthur commanded, saluting them before watching them head back to the horses. He could feel a headache brewing at his temples, which he rubbed with his bandaged hands. He was already drained from seeing what had become of Merlin’s grave; he wasn’t sure how much more bad news he could take.

A few minutes later saw the majority of their traveling party depart the clearing and heading back towards Camelot. The only ones who remained were Arthur and Morgana, with Mordred standing between them. Arthur let out a deep sigh, then turned to the Druid boy. “Lead on, kid,” he teased, watching Mordred scowl at the endearment. 

“‘M not a kid anymore,” the teenager grumbled, but led the way into the forest nevertheless, not knowing that, behind him, Morgana was stifling giggles. Arthur had to agree - Mordred was adorable. 

The walk back to the Druid camp gave the king time to process everything he’d seen at Merlin’s Rest. The unexpected appearance of Mordred had allowed him to push his fresh grief aside for a while, but now it came roaring back, stinging his eyes and clawing at his heart. With each step they took, he cursed whatever beings had done this. 

He felt like someone had stripped him bare and scrubbed him raw. When he’d first lost Merlin, the grief had been heavy and all-consuming. It had eased only slightly in the past two months, and he felt like he was slowly getting better at living with it. Every morning it was a little easier to get out of bed, a little easier to coax himself into eating something, a little easier to start the day without Merlin at his side. 

This new grief was devastating in its difference. It threatened to wipe clean all the progress he had made, to send him right back to where he had been at the very beginning. Already he could feel his energy leech away into the earth through the soles of his boots. He felt, more than saw, Morgana steal quick, concerned glances at him every few minutes, and once again, he wondered how he must look to her and to others, with his bandaged hands, his gaze set on the ground underfoot, his whole being rocked to its core. He grimaced, hoping the Druids wouldn’t take offence at his appearance. Despite  _ knowing  _ they were peaceful, forgiving people, Arthur hoped they would extend that grace to him, even though he doubted he deserved it.

Small, bright pennants strung in the boughs of trees started to appear, pulling Arthur’s attention towards them. They were made of rough-spun cloth and dyed simple colors of the earth, both blending in with the greens and browns of the forest and also standing out like flowers among plain shrubbery. Mordred perked up when he saw them and followed whatever trail they were marking with perfect ease, his posture and stride relaxing now that they were drawing closer to the camp. 

Soon the sounds of human life began to filter through the trees: crackling fires, laughing children, barking hounds, and voices of all sorts calling out to each other in greeting and excitement. As soon as the camp was within sight, Mordred turned to Morgana and Arthur with a radiant smile. “I’m gonna go tell Iseldir that we’re here. I’ll be right back,” he said quickly, then shot off in the direction of one of the tents, leaving the king and princess alone on the outskirts of the encampment.

Morgana took a deep breath. “Do you remember, about a year ago, when I went missing for a few weeks?” she asked suddenly. 

Arthur spun to face her, looking utterly bewildered. “I- Yes, I do. Uther said the Druids had kidnapped you,” he recalled, his brow scrunched as he struggled to remember. 

She nodded, not meeting his gaze. “It was only a half-truth,” she admitted quietly. It took her a moment to gather her courage to continue. “Merlin thought it would be a good idea if I went to them, to learn from their leaders. He said that they’d be my best bet for learning the basics of how to control my magic,” she explained. 

Arthur quietly absorbed this. The logical part of him argued that it made sense - Merlin could hardly teach her magic in the castle if she couldn’t control it. They would have likely blown up whatever room they were using if Morgana had lost focus, and that definitely would have caught Uther’s attention. The emotional part of him, though, ached at the lie. 

“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner, ‘Gana?” he asked, trying to keep the hurt from his voice. Going by Morgana’s expression, he wasn’t completely successful. 

“The same reason Merlin and I didn’t tell you about our magics, I suppose,” she said softly, and Arthur had to look away, feeling the familiar guilt claw its way through his chest. 

“I’m sorry you both thought you couldn’t tell me the truth,” he whispered. “I- I was a real dollophead, wasn’t I?” he asked with a watery laugh. He was unsurprised to find himself in one of Morgana’s fierce hugs, which he returned with a desperation that mirrored the broken state of his soul. 

Someone cleared their throat a few metres away, and the siblings broke apart, both of them trying their damndest to surreptitiously dash the wetness from their eyes. Mordred, true to his word, had returned quickly. At his side was a silver-haired man who looked to be about the same age as Uther, although his face was much kinder and softer than the late king’s. He had a hand resting proudly on Mordred’s shoulder, and a warm smile made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Welcome to our camp, Your Majesty,” he said with a short bow of his head to Arthur. “And welcome back, Your Highness,” he said to Morgana, and suddenly Arthur knew why she had just told him the truth surrounding her “kidnapping”. 

“Thank you for the kind greeting, Iseldir,” Arthur said, falling into the familiar rhythm of formality. “We were told that you have need to speak with us?” 

“I do. However, what I wish to discuss requires some context. It would be far more comfortable if we talked over some food and drink in my tent,” Iseldir offered, and Arthur nodded in acquiescence. 

“Please, lead the way,” he replied, falling in step behind the Druids as they ambled through the camp. 

Mordred, having been thoroughly praised by Iseldir for completing his errand, ran off to join the other Druids who were practicing magic in one of the cleared spaces between tents. Morgana watched him go with a fond smile, and, not for the first time, she wondered what it would have been like to grow up in a community that embraced magic rather than feared it. But when she turned her attention to Arthur, she realized that the children of Camelot now had that very opportunity. A bittersweet smile worked its way onto her face, and she was glad that no one else would ever again have to live in fear like she had.

They soon came to one of the larger tents in the encampment, and Iseldir held open the flap for Arthur and Morgana to head inside. Arthur, having never seen the interior of a Druid’s home, was surprised to find the floor lined with rugs and furs, cushioning their steps. A cot sat in the far corner, piled with blankets and pillows. A few scattered cushions were pushed near a central low table, which was covered in books and scrolls. Iseldir sat down atop one of the cushions, then gestured for Arthur and Morgana to do the same. 

It was surprisingly comfortable, Arthur admitted to himself. Between the rugs and pillows, he could almost forget he was sitting on the ground. 

“Would either of you like something to eat or drink? I’m afraid our stores aren’t quite what you’re used to in Camelot, but we’ve learned how to make a decent wine from the wild berries and grapes that grow in the forest,” Iseldir said with a quiet chuckle. 

Morgana smiled and shook her head. “You’re very kind to offer, but I think neither of us have much of an appetite right now,” she explained sadly. Understanding passed over the older man’s face, and he sighed. 

“I’m sorry. I should have known. Seeing what you did in the clearing… I can’t imagine. That’s one of the reasons why I wished to speak with you both,” he told them. Arthur leaned towards the Druid leader, his interest piqued. 

“You said this would require some context. I’m assuming magic was involved?” he asked, biting back the urge to voice a hundred other questions. 

Iseldir nodded. “You’d be correct. But first, I want to ask you both something. Have either of you heard of the Druid figure known as Emrys?” 

Arthur immediately shook his head, while Morgana was more hesitant. “It sounds… vaguely familiar,” she explained, seeing Arthur’s questioning look. “They might have been mentioned by Merlin during our lessons, or I might have Seen something to do with them in one of my dreams. I can’t be sure.” 

Iseldir smiled sagely. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you had Seen something about him, Your Highness. He’s incredibly important, not just to our people, but to all of Albion. Some would say he’s important to the entire world.”

Morgana raised an eyebrow. “Would you say that?” she asked him with a slight smirk. 

He nodded back to her. “I would. Emrys’ power could easily shake the foundations of everything we know.”

Arthur swallowed hard, feeling slightly unsettled. “He’s that strong? But I thought all sorcerers had limits. My court physician, Gaius, said his own inner source of magic is quite small compared to Morgana’s, but that even Morgana can’t cast spells indefinitely.”

“Under normal circumstances, you’d be correct, King Arthur. But Emrys is different from all other mages. According to our legends and prophecies, he is the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the earth. Although he was born to human parents, some say he is the son of the Goddess, the embodiment of her Will. Others say he does not  _ have _ magic, but rather, he  _ is _ magic.”

Arthur was reeling. He swallowed again, his throat suddenly dry. “I’m sorry, Iseldir, but I don’t see how this relates to us or why we’re here,” he rasped. 

Iseldir looked him in the eye then, and Arthur shuddered at the intensity he saw there. “Emrys is one but one half of a pair, Your Majesty. Our legends tell of him working as an equal with a mortal sovereign, known as the Once and Future King. In the tales, Emrys and his King will unite Albion under the banner of peace and bring magic back to the land.”

Morgana whipped around to look at Arthur, whose face had drained of all color. He opened his mouth, then closed it, finding it impossible to speak. “But- But  _ I’ve _ done that,” he whispered once he found his voice. “I- I legalized magic. Morgana is my Court Sorceress, and I’ve formally pardoned all people who my father killed for allegedly having magic. And- And I’m working on creating treaties with the other kingdoms to create a peaceful Albion,” he explained, feeling an odd sort of panic rising in his chest. 

Iseldir nodded, looking far too calm. “Indeed you have,  _ King _ Arthur,” he said with a slight smile. “And that’s why I bring up Emrys.”

“But I’ve never met anyone with that name!” Arthur blurted out. “And I certainly didn’t work with any Emrys to redo the laws or send out missives for peace treaties!” 

Iseldir held up a hand, and Arthur fell silent. Morgana sat beside him, looking equal parts horrified and hopeful. “I understand your confusion, Your Majesty. But keep in mind that one does not always have to be  _ physically _ with you in order to be by your side.” 

“So he’s, what, someone I kept in mind while making those decisions?” Arthur asked, desperately trying to grasp what Iseldir was implying. He could feel the panic building even higher as his brain veered inevitably towards the answer. His pulse roared in his ears, and he felt the fabric of the cushion in his lap start to tear from the force of his grip. “But I- But the only person I was thinking of while doing all of that was- was-”

“Merlin,” Morgana whispered, staring with wide, awed eyes at Iseldir. “ _ He _ was Emrys?” Her voice was shaking as much as she was. 

“Yes,” Iseldir confirmed with a nod. The man looked to Arthur, his expression solemn. “I doubt any of us will ever truly know how much he did for Camelot, but one thing I’m certain of is that he never used his magic for anything other than to keep his loved ones safe, especially you.” 

“I know,” Arthur said in a low voice, blinking back the stinging in his eyes. “I know, and I wish he’d been just a little less self-sacrificing. I don’t think he realized just how much losing him would hurt us.” Arthur set the pillow aside, minding the torn seams. “How much it would hurt me,” he whispered as he let his tears fall. 

A silence settled around them. The sounds of the camp were muffled through the fabric of the tent, making it as though the world outside was far-removed. Iseldir, bless him, let the siblings take in this new information with infinite patience. He could hardly imagine what it would be like to be in their places. 

He’d known the true identity of Emrys ever since Mordred had returned to them after his disastrous trip into the then-Uther-ruled Camelot. He’d known the Goddess had chosen well when she appointed such a selfless young man the honor of her son-in-spirit. When Merlin had died, the entire magical community had felt it, Iseldir included. He had mourned, of course, but he trusted in the prophecy and the Goddess. Speaking of which…

“There is one final thing I wish to ask you both,” he mentioned gently. Arthur and Morgana looked up at him, and he softened at the lost and mournful expressions on their faces. “Do either of you know the meaning behind Emrys’ name?”

They looked at each other, and, not finding the answer in the other’s eyes, turned back to Iseldir and shook their heads. “I’m afraid we don’t,” Arthur admitted, looking a little embarrassed. “I’m assuming it’s not a name that was pulled out of thin air for convenience.”

Iseldir chuckled again. “You’d be right, sire. Every name and title in our prophecies is chosen for a reason. Most names are in the Old Tongue, which give them innate power when spoken aloud. You Highness,” he said, turning to Morgana, “I’m sure you’re aware that all spells are of similar origin.” She nodded back to him; it was one of the first things she had been taught. “Tell me, in all of your learning, have you ever come across the word ‘ _ emrys _ ’ outside of the prophecy?”

Morgana bit her lip, trying to think back. Arthur watched her with equal parts trepidation and worry. “I don’t believe so. I’ve certainly never used it in any of my spells,” she told him, her eyebrows drawn together. “That’s odd.”

“There’s a reason why spells don’t use that word. To imbue something with  _ emrys _ would make it everlasting. It goes against all magical laws. There is always a give and take, a balancing of the cosmic scales. If something is made to last forever, then it will never return to the dust we are all made from.” 

Iseldir looked Arthur in the eyes. “Even if it seems destroyed,  _ Emrys _ will always return to us.” 

Arthur was suddenly on his feet, looking at the Druid with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Are- Are you saying-” 

“Arthur, the healers’ tent,” Morgana gasped, and then Arthur was running through the camp, his gaze locked on the soft blue hangings outside one of the central pavilions. The rest of the encampment passed by in a blur of muted colors and dim shouts. He had a vague awareness of Druids leaping out of his way, although he wasn’t completely sure that he hadn’t just run them over in his haste instead. He’d seen people entering the tent when he’d walked by with Iseldir, and the familiar herbal smells coming from within had been enough to let him know its purpose. Now he raced towards it with blinding speed, his feet barely touching the ground. 

He burst through the entrance- and froze. 

A lone cot sat against the far wall, its occupant swathed in soft linens and furs. A handful of healers attended to the patient, although it was less a hurried, frantic bustle and more a gentle, curious checking-up. Soft voices carried in the small spaces between them, the Druids asking all sorts of questions of their charge, who answered in little more than exhausted whispers. Between the attending healers and the coverings, Arthur couldn’t make out many details about the patient. What he could see, though, made his heart thunder in his chest. 

Pale skin, drawn too tight over bones. Short black curls that stuck to their forehead, matted by sweat and dirt. Hands wrapped in medical bandages, much like his own, although theirs were much thicker and more extensive. 

Arthur took an uncertain step forwards, and a few of the healers turned to face him, including the one at the patient’s bedside who seemed to be in charge of the others. He paused, unsure if he was welcome here. A moment passed before the lead healer motioned him over with a knowing smile. The Druid turned back to the patient and whispered something to them. Whatever she had said, it made them move as if to rise. 

“Easy, Emrys. You’re not strong enough to sit up yet, never mind stand,” she gently chastised, and the patient- Emrys-  _ Merlin _ grumbled before laying back down with a huff. Arthur was halfway across the tent by then, his gaze locked onto the man’s wrapped hands. 

“What-” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat before trying again. “What happened to his hands?” he asked. 

The healer  _ tsk _ ’d and shook her head fondly at her patient. “The poor fool panicked and decided that digging himself out of his own grave was a wiser option than using his magic to send for help,” she explained, gently flicking his ear. The man - Arthur still didn’t truly believe it could be his Merlin - grumbled again, although it sounded good-natured. “We’ve been using magic and medicine to heal the broken skin and nails, but there’s a great risk of infection when open wounds get  _ covered in dirt _ ,” she said, shooting a look at the man. 

Arthur chuckled. He was already a fan of this woman and her ability to toe the line between playful teasing and actual reprimand. “You remind me of Camelot’s court physician. Have you ever met a man named Gaius?” he asked. He knew he was avoiding the elephant in the room, but part of him was afraid to look, afraid to see if everything he’d heard had been a lie and that the man in the bed before him wasn’t his resurrected best friend. 

He was even more afraid that everything had been true, and that he’d have to confront every emotion he’d felt since that day in the clearing two months ago. 

“I have not, although I’ve heard many great things about him. Mostly from this one,” she said, smiling down at the man in the cot. 

“Are you going to flick me again, Aderyn? Not fair. I’m  _ hurt _ and  _ laid up _ and  _ in pain _ ,” a painfully-familiar voice lamented, making the healer chuckle again. 

“No, no, don’t worry,” she said, lightly patting the back of his hand. The man sighed in relief. “I’m going to leave that to Arthur here.”

The man stilled, then let out the most dramatic groan Arthur had ever heard. “You’re the absolute worst, you know that?” 

“So I’ve been told,” she retorted before standing, folding her hands into the pockets of her robe. “Give a shout if you need me. And before you ask, no, wanting to escape conversation doesn’t count.” She patted his shoulder as he groaned again. 

“The worst!” he called after her retreating form, and she gave Arthur a smile as she passed him. 

“Take it easy on him, sire. He’s been through quite an ordeal this past week,” she said, suddenly serious. Arthur swallowed thickly and nodded, unable to tear his eyes away from the slender lump underneath the bedding. 

Once Aderyn and the other healers had left the tent, only Arthur and the man in the cot remained. A beat passed between them. 

“Arthur,” the voice said, and the king found himself forcing back a sudden wetness in his eyes. He refused to look at the man’s face, his spine ramrod-straight and his fists clenched as much as possible by his sides. “Arthur, please,” he whispered. “I know- I know this has been hard. I’m so sorry. I never should have hid my magic from you. I was just- I was scared and lost and worried, and I never wanted to make you choose between me and your father. But I-I used it only for you, Arthur, I swear it. If nothing else, please, believe me when I say that it’s only ever been to protect you and keep you safe.”

Arthur finally,  _ finally _ , looked at him. And it  _ was _ Merlin, truly and undeniably him. But he was far too pale and skinny, and his eyes were wide with fear. That was unacceptable. Arthur blinked, bewildered. “Merlin,” he rasped, his voice tight. “You think  _ that’s _ what I’m upset about?”

The sorcerer hesitated. “You mean you’re not mad I lied to you?” he asked, some of his panic turning to confusion. 

Arthur let out a short laugh. “I was, for about a minute, until I stopped being stupid and realized  _ why _ you had to keep it hidden. God, Merlin, all those horrible things I said to you about magic and sorcerers… No wonder you were scared to tell me. It’s  _ me _ who should be apologizing to  _ you _ ,” he admitted, sinking onto the cushions by Merlin’s bedside and taking one of his bandaged hands in his own. “Forgive me, Merlin,” he murmured, then pressed a gentle kiss to the wrappings on his hand. “For everything.”

Merlin inhaled sharply at the gesture. “I- You’re forgiven, although I have to say that I think there’s nothing to forgive you for,” he whispered. “It’s your father I’m afraid of.” 

Arthur looked up at him, a little lost. “Have the healers not told you?” he asked. 

“They, er, they’ve kept me pretty isolated from the world while I’ve been healing,” Merlin said, looking a little wrong-footed. “They said they didn’t want to add any extra stress.” 

“Huh. Makes sense,” Arthur admitted, and Merlin nodded in agreement, watching him apprehensively. Arthur took a deep breath, then decided to rip the metaphorical bandage off all in one go. “Merlin, my father is dead.”

The warlock went very, very still. “What?” he squeaked, finding Arthur’s hand and holding it tight. “Arthur, how long was I…?”

“Nearly two months,” Arthur said quietly. “A lot has changed. I’m not sure how much is wise to tell you, since it probably  _ would _ stress you out, but I’m king now. And you- Merlin, magic is free.”

A beat, a blink, and then Arthur found himself with an armful of sobbing sorcerer. He was glad he was already sitting on the ground, as the force of Merlin launching himself at him knocked him onto his back. As soon as he realized what was happening, Arthur wrapped his arms around Merlin and rubbed gentle circles onto his narrow back, murmuring soothing words in his ear. He felt the shudders shaking Merlin’s body. 

“Breathe, Merlin, that’s it. Deep breaths,” he coaxed, hearing him start to take great, shaking lungfuls of air. “It’s alright. Just keep breathing. You don’t want to make yourself sick.” 

Merlin’s sobs slowly tapered off, replaced by a heavy yet comfortable silence punctuated by wet sniffles. He’d encircled Arthur in his arms at some point during his breakdown, using the young king as an anchor to the real world. He would have been embarrassed if not for the fact that Arthur was holding him just as tightly. 

“Thank you,” he rasped as soon as he could speak. His voice was thick with fatigue; Aderyn was going to be furious that he’d exhausted himself, but it was worth it to be held like this. “Arthur, you have no idea how much- I was so scared- Gods,  _ thank you _ ,” he whimpered into the king’s chest, then looked up with bloodshot eyes, feeling Arthur’s gaze on him.

The tender look on Arthur’s face was quite the surprise. He placed a hand on the warlock’s cheek, running the pad of his thumb over his cheekbone. “Merlin, I would do anything to keep you safe,” he said in a low voice. “Losing you…” He cleared his throat, feeling a surge of grief. “Losing you was the worst thing that’s ever happened, but realizing- realizing I was in love with you,  **after** I had lost you… It very nearly broke me.” 

“You absolute dollophead,” Merlin murmured, then surged upwards and pressed his lips against Arthur’s. He tasted like sweet wine and honey and  _ home _ , and Merlin couldn’t stop the soft, pleased noise that rumbled in his chest and throat. Arthur clung to his tunic and kissed him back fervently, swallowing Merlin’s little sounds like a man starved.

In a way, he was. 

They were forced apart much too soon when the flaps of the tent flew open again, and both men, their cheeks equally red and their lips slick and swollen with evidence of their activities, gave a start at the sight of a very familiar someone standing in the doorway. 

“Morgana!” Arthur squeaked, blushing like a teenager caught by his parents, but he was ignored in favor of his manservant, who gave a shout as Morgana tackle-hugged him. Merlin shot Arthur a helpless look and received only a smirk and snicker in return. With a roll of his eyes and a put-upon, dramatic sigh, he returned Morgana’s hug, pretending not to notice how she was shaking in his arms. 

“Wonderful timing, as always, ‘Gana,” Arthur complained, and he got a rude gesture from Morgana for his efforts. 

“Shut up, Arthur, I’m trying to decide if I should punch Merlin now, or keep hugging him and punch him later,” came her muffled voice from where her face was pressed into his shoulder. 

“I vote for the hugging and no punching, period, if it’s all the same to you,” Merlin piped up. 

“If you think a punch from Morgana is bad, wait until we get back to Camelot and see what Gwaine’s reaction will be,” Arthur added, making Merlin groan again. 

“Bollocks. I’m going to be his personal training dummy for a month, aren’t I?” 

“I’m sure you’re going to be sore one way or another anyways,” said Morgana as she dried her face on her sleeve, clearly recovered enough to be poking fun at him again. 

Arthur’s face turned even more red. “Morgana!” he cried, indignant, as she and Merlin giggled. 

In the comfortable silence that lapsed afterwards, Arthur sat up on the cushions, reclining back onto his hands as he watched Morgana lightly cuff Merlin on his shoulder. “I’m only going easy on you because you’re still recovering,” she explained with a haughty sniff. 

“Oh? And here I was, thinking it was because you actually missed me,” Merlin retorted, batting his girlishly-long eyelashes at her. She snorted and gave him a playful shove, sending him cackling onto the furs and rugs on the ground. 

Arthur watched the easy domesticity play out with what must have been a besotted expression, because when Morgana looked at him, she rolled her eyes in mock disgust, and Merlin went beet-red and started to babble to Morgana about what he’d learned about the Druids while he’d been healing. 

Sunlight trickled into the tent through the open flaps, illuminating the trio in a warm orange glow. It brought out the flecks of gold in Merlin’s eyes, and Arthur’s breath caught at his beauty. He could suddenly see their lives, interwoven, laid out before him like the finest map. Always, there was Arthur and Merlin, Merlin and Arthur, side by side, together. Forever.

The future was definitely bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to call me out for mistakes in the comments. I literally JUST finished writing this, so it hasn't been proofread at all. 
> 
> See you guys for the next (and final) chapter on March 5th!


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